Huh? So like... he wears his belt like sumo underwear?
Originally Posted by STB'A
that's how i wear mine....
Originally Posted by Tranquil Suit
Stay classy, San Diego!
Originally Posted by STB'A
I read the entire saga of FF and I don't think I have ever read anything more funny in ever. Well time to start going through withdrawal for it like the rest of you guys.
Forever Fat II, Act whatever, Part whatever, whatever
Many things happened between then and now.
But mostly, time passed.
I trained as much as I could, as did my girlfriend, and we both merrily climbed atop the crushed crippled corpses that carried us to caricature-ish cockiness. My powers grew daily as I mauled my training partners, like some demon sorcerer sacrificing the limbs of mewling babes to the nether-dark. There were low highs, and high lows, nothing too extreme. Plateaus were arrived at and left and arrived at again. I started coming up with my own techniques, my own perspectives on things, and adding it to my book of grapplomancer spells. It is inevitable, though, that someone who wields dark power will want to test it.
The idea of a tournament was still repugnant to me; I had wasted so much time doing drunken boxing and other shenanigans that I still needed to catch up to where I shouldíve been. The more I thought about it, though, was that necessarily true? Iíd been training for more than a year fairly consistently. It would not be ridiculous to think that maybe I had caught up. This thought trap had kept me from competing for a while, but maybe it was an unfounded concern.
I was unsure. On the one hand, I didnít want to look like a fool. People that had continued training while I pursued other adventures had far surpassed me in skill, so I felt perpetually inferior. On the other hand, what if I was like, really, really good and just didnít know it? What if I was some kind of jiu jitsu genius that could play the air guitar as I passed guard with a cartwheel? On a hand extending from the previous hand at a tangential angle, what if everything I was working on was bullshit? What if all my fancy leg attacks, cartwheels, giant swings, what if none of them worked? What if I couldnít even put up a fighting chance? On a third degree hand sprouting from the extended hand, wouldnít I want to know I was wasting my time sooner rather than later?
Eventually I committed internally to the idea, but was still pretty anxious about the whole concept. The more I thought about it, though, the more convinced I became. I wanted to know something real, something true, about my jiu jitsu. Were my techniques bona fide or bullshit? This was the biggest driving factor. My fear of failure was still present but it was being ignored for my inner scientist.
The next day I immediately flip flopped and realized my idea was ridiculous. Iím out of shape, and Jesus Christ, have you even seen those guys? I had seen on Houston BJJ forums the kinds of guys that competed in my weight class. I mean, weíve all seen muscled guys, but these guys have that little snake muscle that crawls out from the groinal area. The ones that ladies say to their husbands, ďOh that doesnít matter, also that guy is probably gay, he works out too muchĒ, but at home, in private, they collapse into a pile of teenage lust as they do ghastly, hideous things to a cucumber, as itís the only way they can release the unanswerable yearning in their loins that develops from the mere contact of the light on their eyes reflecting from the muscles of my competitors.
The next day I immediately flip flopped. To quote Gai-Sensei, I would not lose to myself. I will not let fear control my decisions. Before I could flip flop again, I told everyone I desperately, desperately needed the respect of that I was competing. This way if I backed out, I would greatly shame myself in the process, probably even more so than losing.
Naturally I immediately regretted the position, and tried to spend about 20 minutes seeing if I could spoof an email from my email provider that my account had been hacked and some malicious trickster had sent out these emails, and gee I wish I could compete, but man, have you even seen those groin muscles lately? But it didnít matter, the deed was done, and I would begin training. On a side note, it turns out faking your death is some kind of felony or something.
Naturally though, I was working and starting to go to law school at night, so I was only able to train twice a week tops, and I didnít even bother trying to cut weight (except for a big poop). I knew I was probably boned, but so what? I had my excuses in case I lost (only 2 days a week of training, and a huge poop that gave me distended exploded anus syndrome, like when Bugs Bunny plugged up Elmer Fuddís gun and it exploded, curling backwards like a flower, thatís what my butt looked like after that poop), and really, I just wanted to see if my techniques were the real thing, or I was just beating up nameless faceless white belts for no reason. With this in mind, I set a mental goal. I wanted to win just my first match. Thatís all I needed to confirm I was a legit purple. I didnít need first. All I needed was not last.
The day of the tournament came, and instantly I regretted every decision leading up to the tournament. My stomach was flipping constantly. To make matters worse my family, girlfriend, and most of the BJJ school had come to see me compete. The pressure was insane. How could this get any worse? Who else couldíve come? Penis Hands (no pun intended)?
Surely enough, Penis Hands showed up. He had students competing, so there was the pressure of wanting to show that I had gotten better since leaving him behind. And another former friend from another school. And another. And another. And another. By Helioís guard, I probably knew half the people in attendance.
Maybe it is my lack of self confidence, maybe it is my low self esteem, or maybe it was the fact everyone on the fucking planet had shown up, but I was getting very nervous. And when I get nervous, I self defense ****. Iím sure it served my ancestors well. A velociraptor, or whatever creature was the fear-equivalent of a velociraptor was that my ancestors faced, would probably not want to walk through some diarrhea to eat its prey. Thatís just gross. Better go eat someone else, someone else who just didnít have diarrhea, these apex predators said. When it looks like someone has a chocolate faucet for a butt, that smells like their entire system of internal organs shut down a few days ago, it is understandable that someoneís appetite may be reduced. So while it may have helped Cro-magnon Badguy to poop when heís nervous, it meant I had to make a trip to the bathroom.
We all know that nothing ever goes well for me. It is well established in the common law of the universe that things have to conspire against me at every turn. Being distracted, I forgot to put on my sandals as I went to go poop. As I was pooping, the promoter of the tournament announced a new rule, that if you went into the bathroom without shoes on, you were DQíed for the rest of the day, and also pretty gross, and that your actions are bad and you should feel bad.
As I finished wiping, preparing to wash my hands (I didnít want my first opponent to smell nervous poop on my hands, he may then know that Iím intimidated), my brother dashed into the room with sandals in hand, saving me from DQ as the promoter stood outside the bathroom, glaring at everyone for having such exceptional inherited ancestral genetics. I had skirted the poop-DQ disaster only by thanks to my family; the gods of fate would punish me for this later. They would not be denied my suffering.
Finally, the brackets were posted. I scooted around and searched for purple belt, and my weight class. I wondered who I would fight. Probably someone from some school Iíd never heard of.
Naturally, it couldnít be that way.
My first opponent was a purple belt from Penis Handsí school.
The shock was almost too much. It was like my life was some horrible 80ís movie, and here I was, the awkward, non-stop shitting Daniel-San. I was going to have to prove myself against someone from my old school. I, the creonte, the betrayer, the school changer, would face a devout disciple of the Wang Fist Way. My resolve was redoubled. I didnít want to win my first match any more. I had to.
What was gnawing at me, though, was the name. I didnít recognize it. Who the hell was this? Was he my size? Skinny? Hopefully he was weak. Nice and weak. I asked a friend, and he pointed him out and-
He was about 6 inches taller than me (though everyone was, so it wasnít saying much), and easily the most stacked guy in our division. I almost let out a giddy laugh; all the pressure was crushing me, and the threads of fate had brought me here, fighting my old school that I hated, against a huge guy (with the groinal zone muscle, I totally saw it as he was putting his gi pants over his board shorts, all strong and defiant and sticking out). What originally started as a way to test the validity of my moves turned into the entire planet of Earth watching me fight against an agent of my original arch nemesis.
I had foolishly asked my parents to bring a camera to tape me, because one part of me wanted to use it as helpful information, and another part was hoping Iíd have a bitchiní highlight reel afterwards. Now I realized that they might just be recording the greatest humiliation of my life. My excuses from earlier about not having enough time to train and not cutting weight didnít matter anymore. There are times when you can lose, and those excuses help you feel better. But there are times when you canít lose, where it simply isnít an option, and those excuses donít matter. This was one of those times.
Our match was the first one, and we both stepped on the mat. We slapped hands. And so it began.
I got taken down immediately. I think that if you were trying to choreograph someone getting taken down, and asked someone ďhey, please get taken down as best as you canĒ, it still wouldnít have looked as bad as it did for me. Panic hit. I was going to lose on takedown points if he stalled. To be still is to die. I aggressively fought to get half guard, and started tunneling past his groin muscles into deep half. His gi was rough and scraping off my face, but I didnít care. Iíd grind my face to hamburger. I had to get to deep half.
The perceptive reader may be asking, why the mad dash for deep half? Did you have some super secret plan the whole time? Was it your strongest position? Were you going to bite his taint when no one was looking? The answer to all of these questions is no. The night before, I had seen a deep half highlight reel of Jeff Glover. It looked so easy. Even though I had never practiced it, I looked up a basic sweep on youtube, and was excited thinking Iíd make some amazing highlight reel too. While being taken down shocked me into the reality of abandoning hopes of the highlight reel, I was getting to deep half, by god. It was the port in the storm, the only thing I could think of in the swirl of rage, shame, and anxiety. Iíd be going down, but it would be in a blaze of glory. I got to deep half. So I went for the Homer Simpson sweep, the most basic sweep, where you essentially just rock the guy backwards.
And it worked. We were both surprised, I think. Itís like when you actually manage to please your girlfriend in bed; youíre both mirthful at what just happened, knowing that it was a fluke and wonít happen ever again.
I managed to get on top, and he managed to start his own half guard. Some call it the knee shield, 93 guard, Z guard, but at the time I called it the ďWhat the hell is this shitĒ. I had never encountered this before, and had no idea how to proceed. My coach must have recognized my open mouth glazed stare, as he started shouting how to pass. So I did exactly what he said, and sure enough, I passed. Iím not sure how many coaches would have the balls to try and teach someone a technique during a competition, or how many purple belts would be so completely unprepared as to need such coaching, but it worked. It felt good to have a coach that understood my incompetence to such a level.
As I set down in side-control, he was stiff arming the hell out of me, more or less socking me in the face, desperately trying to recover guard. Thanks to my sweep, we were tied on points; but if I passed guard, that was going to put him behind. It was here that I used the only thing Iíve ever retained from Kuk Sool Won; a wrist lock when your opponent grabs your shirt. While Iím sure thereís a BJJ equivalent (as Iíve seen other BJJíers do it), I had carried this technique from Kuk Sool Won for 13 years, just for this day. While I didnít get the tap, it was close enough to make him forget about regaining guard, and I settled down into side control. I got the points, but thatís not what I wanted. By all the gods that ever were and ever will be, I wanted a submission. And not just any submission.
As Iíd mentioned in previous entries, I love leg locks, and Penis Hands hated leg locks. What better resolution of such an important battle than by tapping out his student with a leg lock?
Normally you enter those from certain positions, and I use reaping style tactics to keep control of my opponent. Of course this tournament had neutered my strongest weapon by taking away the ability to reap. This did not mean leg locks were out of the question. There were other ways.
Believe it or not, the idea originally came from drunken boxing. In one of the many movies I watched studying the art during my self-taught period, one man took another down by doing a backwards roll, placing his pelvis on the front of the other guyís thighs, holding his ankles, and tripping him down. After that, he yanked his legs back, apart, and kicked him in the groin. My leg lock was the same except for the groin part. My modification was to just stick one of my legs in between his and go for a knee bar. After some time, I just started going to it from reverse mount and cutting out the difficult takedown all together.
So I eagerly popped up to knee on belly, frog jumped to reverse mount, yanked up both his legs, and went for a knee bar. The other guy freaked out, heeled me in the butt hole, and started twisting his knee to escape. I switch to a toe hold, start applying pressure, and feel victory as the tension increases. I see his hand rise. I AM VICT-
ďHey man, you canít do that.Ē
The ref was standing over me, and I relax my grip. I feel like a little kid who is getting his horse taken from him, and by the way the horse is going to the glue factory, and also Iím the one who has to murder him. ďBut toe holds are legalĒ I plead. And they most certainly were for my belt, a point I had asked clarification for earlier in the rules.
ďI know man, but I just donít like the position youíre in.Ē
I look down and see my legs are still in the knee bar position, and as the bloodlust recedes ever so slightly, I can hear Penis hands frothing at the mouth about how Iím reaping. I donít see it as reaping, but the ref hasnít disqualified me. I did not want to push my luck. In my mind I knew I wouldíve had him. Iíll just have to make sure I beat him anyway. I politely let go, and the ref just kind of started the action again out of nowhere, so I was stuck playing open guard. Open guard when my opponent is disengaged is my worst position, but I had another trick up my sleeve.
Back in my kung fu/tricking days, I wanted to learn how to kip up. It was pretty much the staple of any kung fu action film, and really, if you canít even stand up cool-ly, you have no business avenging your master or banging all of the ladies. It is sufficient to say that the kip up never materialized for me; apparently having 25 pounds of old hamburgers glued to your ribs doesnít help with acrobatic maneuvers. I never forgot about the kip up though, and tried to use it in many a BJJ class to stand up from an open guard situation. Eventually I gave up, but did come up with a weird way of bridging a gap where I plant my hands like Iím going for a kip up, but then just push myself forward to collide into the opponent, scrambling for a half guard or single leg. I did my kung fu leg shoot, and pulled him back down into half guard.
I saw there were 9 seconds left on the clock, and I was up by three points. I was assured victory, provided he didnít pass, but god damn if I didnít want a submission. Iíd like to say that, at this point, I whipped out a really cool Karate submission, or modified something I learned in Karate for BJJ, or something in BJJ with Karate. But I didnít learn a damn thing in Karate other than you donít punch Sensei in the gut, so I attempted the dog-hump-leg knee bar that I had learned from my second BJJ instructor (not the one that coached me, or Penis Hands, but the one that taught next to the ninjas).
I tried so hard, but in the end, it didnít even matter. Time ran out, and I won on points. Penis Hands stormed the mat, yelling about how I was reaping, about how I shouldíve been DQíed, there should be an over time, just anything he could think of. I was worried Iíd lose my win, and ask my instructor what I should do. He looks at me cool, and simply says ďLet him make a fool of himself.Ē Penis Hands spent so much time arguing that the next match starts with a different ref. I didnít get my hand raised. There were no cheering crowds, or high light reel submissions. No one threw a ring of flowers around my neck, or popped champagne. Onlookers didnít even know who won.
But I knew. And when I gave the thumbs up to whoever was watching, they knew too.
Iíd like to say that I won everything else, went on to become world champion, am currently driving a Ferrari as I date all the super models of the world (both in series and in parallel), and am currently in possession of a solid gold banana hammock. But it just isnít true. I lost my other matches.
But I won the one that mattered.
Later, I borrowed the camera to watch my matchesÖonly to find that I was out of the frame in all of them, or it was too shaky to see what the hell was going on. They didnít even turn the camera on for the only match I won. For the videos that were recorded, all I heard was commentary from my Mom, like ďwhyís he getting taken down so muchĒ, and ďOop, down he goes againĒ, and ďWhy doesnít he just lay downĒ, ďHasnít he learned yetĒ, ďGet out of that, ***** boy!Ē, and so on. But it didnít matter either. I had already validated my entire lifeís journey. Many moons later, which wouldíve been late last year, I got my brown belt. Iíve never simultaneously wanted and not wanted something so bad in my entire life. I still donít think Iím brown belt level.
And that brings us up to now. I donít want Forever Fat to be a training blog. Originally I created it to showcase how shitty my luck is, and how stupid I am. I donít know if itís that Iíve gotten older, wiser, or just plain boring, but hilarious, embarrassing, or unbelievable things rarely happen to me these days. Thereís no material left in the old goldmine of Martial Arts related Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
Iím not going to say this is the end of Forever Fat. As long as Iím around, thereís always going to be some sort of mischief Iím getting into, and I donít have my black belt yet. So, Iím not closing Part II with a ďthe endĒ. Instead Iíll close by sayingÖ
UNTIL NEXT TIME
My day sucked until this.
You just improved the quality of my day in a non-finite fashion. My thanks to you, MrBadGuy.
I read that as pooped champagne.
Originally Posted by MrBadGuy
Loved how training from your past stories made it into this story.
This can't be the end though, you never told the story about the 60 year old lesbian Kung fu master.
You brilliant man, thank you so much. That was amazing. I've missed it. I have passed on the previous threads to Battlefields, as he had no idea of your amazeness and martial journey to the weast (west and east combined...mmm).
You should get together with the Ameri Do Te people and make a movie.